


Too Late to Say You're Sorry

by cats_mother (phoebesmum)



Series: Sports Night/Dollhouse crossover [2]
Category: Dollhouse, Sports Night
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/cats_mother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is the same any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Late to Say You're Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Written March 2009. This follows on from the events in _Make This Beggar a King_. Many thanks to lomedet for a marvellous beta job.

_Something's lost that can't be found …  
Something's lost that can't be found …  
Something's lost that can't be found …_

That's Lora-Lee, the nine-year-old from the next-door apartment, jumping rope in the hallway, chanting the same words monotonously over and over, if ear-splitting shrillness can be called a monotone. Natalie pauses around the corner of the stairs, making a face. She's a kind-hearted woman, and she'd been sorry for the kid when the family'd first moved in – she'd seemed lonely and friendless, wasn't allowed out alone, had noplace to play but around the building – so Natalie had gone out of her way to make friends, always sparing a smile and stopping for a few words any time their paths crossed.

That hadn't been often, what with Natalie's work schedule, so it had taken a while to dawn on her that sometimes the lonely and friendless are that way for a very good reason. Gradually the truth filtered through: tales of name-calling and stone-throwing, banging on doors and writing on walls. Lora-Lee had a low boredom threshold, as witness the never-ending stream of broken, abandoned playthings down by the refuse bins and, more tragically, the number of tiny cardboard coffins. Lacking any gift of inventiveness in finding ways of filling up her time, she made up for it in strength of malice.

"Some days I wonder if we should feel sorry for her," another of Natalie's neighbours had said one day as they passed in the hallway and shared a passing glance at the latest outbreak of abusive and misspelt graffiti. "But then I come to my senses and file her under 'Demon Seed'."

Natalie had sympathised. The best she'd managed to salvage from the relationship was the rescue of a small, bedraggled white kitten that had somehow managed to escape Lora-Lee's clutches. It lived with Dana now and, once its whiskers and eyebrows had grown back, had seemed to recover from the trauma quite nicely.

Now she heaves a sigh, jiggles the grocery bags in her arms to adjust their weight, braces herself, and turns the final corner.

Lora-Lee spots her immediately. "_Hi_, Ms Hurley!"

Natalie fakes a friendly smile. "Hi there, Lora-Lee. Have you lost something?"

The jumprope stops turning and Lora-Lee looks up, eyes big and sad. The effect might be angelic if not for the wad of gum stuffed into a corner of her cheek, and if Natalie didn't know her. "I lost my new pet hamster, Snowy. He climbed out of his cage, and we can't find him _anywhere_."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Natalie lies, while mentally congratulating Snowy on his lucky escape. "So you're asking St Anthony for help?"

"Mom says he finds things that're missing," Lora-Lee tells her. And then, inevitably, "Ms Hurley, why don't you ask him to find _your_ friend?"

Because Lora-Lee can scent weakness like a shark can smell blood, and she'd homed in on Danny's disappearance from the very first day.

_Ms Hurley, has your friend come home yet?  
Ms Hurley, what happened to him?  
Do you think he died?  
Do you think somebody killed him?  
Who do you think killed him?  
How do you think they killed him?  
Do you think maybe he killed himself? My dad says only cowards kill themselves.  
Ms Hurley, my dad says your friend ran away because he was going to jail, is that true?  
Ms Hurley, didn't the police ever find him?_

"They're not looking for him any more, Lora-Lee," she'd said to that last question. Because it was true. Barely a week after Danny had gone missing the office had been visited by a bored-looking detective who'd informed them, none too apologetically, that the charges were being dropped – all a mistake, he'd told them, flawed evidence, these things happen, real sorry about that – and Dan Rydell was free to go back to living his everyday life, not a stain on his character.

Or he would have been if he'd still been around to enjoy his freedom.

Lora-Lee's dad had said (Lora-Lee chose to inform Natalie) that the police had dropped the case just because Dan was famous. "My dad says people that're famous never go to jail because they're s'lebrities," she'd told Natalie. "Do you think that's true, Ms Hurley?"

Natalie had had a lot of trouble finding an answer to that one.

She doesn't have much of an answer now, either, so she does what she always does: smiles, says something quick and casual and noncommittal, and gets away as fast as she can. She closes her apartment door behind her, drops the grocery bag to the counter, and flops into a kitchen chair, resting her elbows on the table and letting her forehead fall into her hands.

_Something's lost that can't be found …!_

Yes, as a matter of fact, she has tried that. She's tried everything – they all have, everyone at _Sports Night_ – everyone at Quo Vadimus. They hired private detectives, they offered a reward, they talked to every source, followed every lead. For all their efforts, all of Calvin Trager's billions, they were as helpless as one of Lora-Lee's doomed baby animals. They came up with nothing – over and over again; for months now, nothing but false leads and false hopes, nothing but dead ends.

Although she tries not to use the word 'dead'. In spite of everything, against all reason and all the evidence, she still refuses to believe that's possible. Danny would never have done that to himself – no matter how hopeless things had seemed. He would never have done that to _them_.

Even though they'd let him down. Even though they'd stood by and watched him fall and done nothing to try to catch him, to save him.

They'd had their reasons. Those phone calls, late at night, threatening, warning: they'd all had them. Casey had received an envelope in the internal mail stuffed with close-up photos of Charlie, at school, in the park, outside his own home. With Jeremy it had been Louise; for Dana it was Kyle. For Natalie … she can't bear to say it aloud, not even to herself. She couldn't even tell Jeremy – especially not Jeremy – and that had been the final wedge that had riven their relationship apart. They all had their weak spots, their Achilles heels, something they valued more than their own safety, more than their love for Dan. Some reason not to stand up and speak out for him, some reason to leave him to flounder and suffer alone.

Is it any wonder that these days they can hardly bear to look at one another? They all know what they did; they all share the same burden of guilt.

Everything's so different now.

Well, of course it is; that much goes without saying. They've lost a friend, a partner, a confidant; the one person in their close little circle who could always be depended on to say the right words, do the right thing, who would give anything, anything, to help the people he loved.

But they've lost more than that. They had been a family. Eccentric and dysfunctional, true, but a family nonetheless. Not any more. They've lost trust; they've lost faith in one another. And, with those things gone, the next victim had, inevitably, been love.

They'd let Danny down. And now it was too late to say "I'm sorry."

_Something's lost that can't be found –  
Please, St Anthony, look around!_

It has exactly as much chance of success as anything else they can do. Maybe more. When human effort fails, what can you do but hope for a miracle?

***

"It's done?"

He glances over his shoulder, then looks back at the bloody mess he's created. Not bad, he reflects, for less than a minute's highly-paid work, and allows himself a moment's satisfaction.

"Done," he confirms. He makes as if to holster his gun and turn away, then suddenly snaps around, aims, and looses off one last shot, grinning as he registers the disbelief, the astonishment on the face of his former partner, the last name on his contract. A man can go through a lifetime of experience, he's sometimes thought, in that fraction of a moment between life and death.

Some days he longs to know that feeling himself: to understand everything, all the hidden secrets of the universe. One day, he knows, and probably sooner rather than later, he will do.

So: job done. Quick, clean, efficient – all his usual trademarks. He's quietly pleased with himself. And then …

Movement in his peripheral vision. He whirls, heart thudding – this wasn't part of the plan! – brings the gun back up, trains it on the man who's seemingly appeared out of nowhere. A heartbeat before he shoots, the stranger speaks.

*

_Are you ready for your treatment?_

*

Funny how life can take you by surprise. Ever since High School he's dated the same kind of trophy girl – tall, slim, pretty, nice legs, big … you know. Cheerleaders, Prom queens, models, starlets – an unending stream of blonde hair, straight white teeth and sunkissed skin. He'd always told himself it was what he deserved. He's a good-looking guy, he's rich, he's successful – he can have the best of everything, so why settle for anything less?

What an idiot he'd been. Now he's met Joyce he realises the truth: that it's what's inside that matters. She may not look like much – not until you know her, _really_ know her, not until you look into her eyes and see the light that shines within her – but in her heart, in her soul, Joyce is more beautiful than all the others put together.

All of the others were dolls, beautiful, flawless, but empty. Joyce – ah, Joyce is a _woman_.

He reaches out to her: "Shall we dance?" She doesn't wait for him to ask a second time, but grabs hold of his hand and all but drags him onto the dance floor. He laughs, loving it, loving _her_. He's barely aware of the bride, but Joyce meets her sister's angry glare and smiles, secretly, smugly.

Nobody's looking at Heidi any more. For the first time in her entire life, all eyes are on Joyce.

*

_Hello, Delta._

*

The download bar's moving slowly, too slowly, barely crawling upward: twenty percent … twenty five … thirty …

"Come on," he breathes, "Come _on!_"

His hands are sweating inside their latex gloves. He tips back his head, inhales deeply, forces himself to relax.

Sixty percent … seventy …

Footsteps outside the door. Shit! He turns off the screen, moves on silent feet to flatten himself against the wall: waiting.

The handle turns. His hand comes chopping down, swift, silent, precise, and the intruder drops. He drags the unconscious body inside none-too-gently – if it's found it'll screw up his clean getaway, fuck up _everything_, dammit! – drags a chair against the door, and returns to his mission. His heart's thumping, but that's okay, that's good: it keeps him on the edge, at the top of his game, shows him he's _alive_ …

Ninety percent … ninety five …

Finally!

He pulls the datastick free, drops it into his pocket, cracks the door open just wide enough to slip through, and is gone, like a shadow, like a spectre. Like no-one, no-one at all.

*

_Did I fall asleep?_

*

He clasps the woman's hands in his own: strong, comforting. "You must understand," he tells her gently, "This is an experimental procedure. It's been tried exactly once before."

Her anxious eyes seek his. "And it was successful?"

He hesitates for no more than a fraction of a second. "It will be." He says it firmly, his voice confident; he knows he speaks the truth. He has faith in himself, in his skills, in who he is.

He knows that he's the best there is.

*

_Should I go now?_

*

He kneels silently, passive, acquiescent. The stone floor is cold against his skin and his shoulders ache with strain, but he holds himself still and waits for what is to come.

It isn't his to question. It isn't his to wonder why.

He's nothing. He's nobody.

This … is all there is.

*

_Should I go now?_

"If you like," says the man – he knows he's seen him before, but he can't recall his name. It doesn't bother him.

He knows who _he_ is – Delta – and that …

"… is all I need to know," he whispers, and wonders where he's heard those words before.

***

Casey throws to him – "… I give you Isaac Jaffee, former Managing Editor of _Sports Night_" – the floor manager cues him in, Dana whispers, "You go, boss!" in his ear, and then it's just him, him and whoever might be listening out there in the night.

"Good evening." He glances down at the notes he's scribbled on memo cards, raises his eyes to Camera 2. "More than a hundred thousand people go missing in the United States every year. A hundred thousand. That's a statistic and, like most statistics, out of context it's pretty meaningless. How many is a hundred thousand? It's hard to visualise, I know, so let's paint a picture. Imagine Yankee Stadium. Imagine it full. Now double that. It's a rough estimate, but there you pretty much have your figure.

"Chances are that still doesn't mean very much to you. Most of us have trouble relating to tragedy in the abstract. We reason it away, we brush it aside, we try to forget about it. Most of the time, we can do that. Until it happens to us. When it does – well, when it does, that changes things. It changes everything. Your life will never be the same again.

"A year ago today, our lives here at _Sports Night_ were changed in just that way. One of our own – someone very dear to all our hearts – became one of those statistics, the one out of the hundred thousand who isn't nameless, faceless, anonymous. A year ago today, Dan Rydell who, along with his partner Casey McCall had been the face of _Sports Night_ from the very beginning, walked out of his apartment and has never been seen again."

He pauses – for effect, for breath, to control the slight involuntary catch in his voice. He's seen more than enough heartbreak in the course of his career, reported it coolly, unemotionally, professionally. No-one's ever seen Isaac Jaffee lose control, on camera or off, and nobody ever will.

But … god. If he'd only been here when it had happened. If he hadn't chosen that month, of all possible times, to take Esther and Ellie back to London for their first visit since his stroke; if someone had thought to let him know what was going on instead of trying to shield him; if, if, if. Isaac doesn't know what he could have done, but he knows this: he would have tried his damnedest to do _something_. Anything. No matter what it might have cost.

It took him a long time to forgive the rest of them. In a lot of ways, he still hasn't. He has to remind himself that they're grieving too, and that they have their failures to bear, as well as the loss.

When – when, not if – Danny comes home, Isaac's going to make sure that there's a reckoning. In the meantime, they're all in this together, and they need to act as a team. Everything else can wait.

"Losing Danny – " _Damn!_ "Losing anyone, anyone close, is always a tragedy. That's a given. But tragedy's a part of life. Over time you learn to deal with it, you learn how to go on. You mourn, you find some form of closure, and, eventually, the healing begins.

"Except that in this case, as for those hundreds and thousands of others, the families, friends and loved ones of missing persons, there is no closure. There can't be. All there is is emptiness, unknowing: fear of what might have happened, fear of what might be happening still.

"And so I make this plea: Dan, if you're out there, if you can hear us – send us word. If you can't come back to us, at least let us know you're alive. Or if anyone, anyone at all, has seen him, knows anything that would help us, then please, in the name of humanity, show some mercy and share what you know.

"I'm Isaac Jaffee, and you're watching _Sports Night_ on QVN. On behalf of everyone here, I say one more time: Danny, wherever you are, whatever you've gone through, whatever your life may be now, we love you and we miss you. No matter what you may believe, we're your friends, and we need you badly. Badly," he echoes, as Danny had echoed once, so very, very long ago now. Long ago, and in another world.

"Remember us. Come home to us.

"And may god be with you, and with all those other lost and lonely souls."

And they're out.

***


End file.
